


Lament of the Stars

by forgemini



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alternate 1940s esque, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Circus, Drama, Drug Use, Found Family, Gen, Love Triangles, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Magical Elements, Moral Ambiguity, Murder Mystery, Post-War, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgemini/pseuds/forgemini
Summary: “The circus comes without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.”When the bodies of murdered women begin appearing across the country, Lee Howon is forced to leave his modest life in a mountainside town to investigate the truth behind the bewitching circus they'd all visited before their untimely deaths; and, in the process, confront the truths of a past he wishes he could forget.





	1. I

It was three hours past midnight when someone entered The Purple Pig.

Dimly lit and dully colored, only a man, broad shouldered and as stalky as he was stern, wiped down the bar top while a boy, no older than sixteen, swept up the remains of broken beer bottles scattered on the uneven floor boards. Rain bulleted against the walls and front window, leaving an acrid scent of damp wood and mold. They hadn’t seen the black cab pull up but paused in their work at the stiff  _clunking_ of the front door closing.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, ma’am.”

A woman, small and slender, stood by the door way. She acted as if she had not heard the boy and looked as though she were regarding the small bar with the careful precision of a hawk, as if taking note of every detail, every texture, every crack. The man noticed her embroidered boots and felt hat—too nice to have been from the west end of town. Or from town at all for that matter. Though having just stepped out of the rain, the curls of her hair and pleat of her trench remained crisp and proper.

“Ma’am, we’re close.”

She continued to look about the bar with an odd curiosity. The man, expression visibly irritated, stepped out from around the counter and began approaching.

“Ma’am.”

“Are you Lee Howon?”

He paused.

“Who’s ask—,”

“My name is Jessica Jung. I’m a detective with the Generations Police Department.”

Howon immediately stiffened and watched as she reached into her pocket and produced a badge and ID, giving him a moment to let him process the identification.

“I was hoping we could,” she began, a grin spreading across her lips, “have a talk.”

His eyes shifted from the metal in her gloved hand to the boy in the corner. With only a single beat of pelting rain, she kept her smile as Howon commanded the boy up a back staircase, giving him a stern tone but playful whip of the rag.

“And don’t you dare listen,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll know.”

“Cute kid.”

She held a fondness in her voice, one that was too tender to seem disingenuous.

“He’s got a habit for sticking his nose in places he shouldn’t if you ask me, but he’s a good kid.”

“That how he got the scar across his eye?”

“No.” Howon threw a towel over his shoulder and watched as Jessica removed her trench coat and felt hat and draped them across a bar stool.  “Parents died in a bombing out in Ville Est. Rescued him from a pile of bloodied corpses and ruble.”

“You served?”

“Barely. Only caught the last six months of the war.”

Jessica gave him a look, one he couldn’t read in the dimness of the storm and flickering incandescents.

“Either way, thank you for your service.”

Jessica had made herself comfortable seated at the bar. Howon made himself a barrier of the countertop.

“Mint Julep,” she said and placed a five piece on the bar top.

Howon raised a brow at the bills, crisp and new, laying on the warped wood, and turned to look at the shelves of cheap booze behind him. The light fixture hummed and flickered as something scurried out across the exposed pipes.

“Where d’ya think you are?”

 Her expectant smile dropped and expression hardened, bored. Leaning back into her stool, she crossed her arms and let the pristine curls of her hair fall off her shoulder.

“Just rum and sugar, then.”

Howon sighed. He poured his least offensive brand of dark liquor and sprinkled in a pinch of a salt and sugar mix.

“So, Ms. Jung…” He slid her the drink.

“Call me Jessica, Howon.” She said. “We’re both adults.”

Howon watched as she carefully pulled each finger of her suede gloves. She had boxy hands, rougher than what Howon would have thought from her put together appearance. She lifted the glass. “Cheers.”

“Okay, Jessica,” Howon began. “So, what does a detective from the big city need to talk to little ol’ me about?”

“Oh please. Big city?” Jessica scoffed. She took another sip. “Generations is nothing compared to the capital.”

“Then L’ange must be but a speck to you.”

“It’s quaint.”

She had an air about her, soft cheekbones and nose tipped down. As a flash of lightning washed out the details of her face, he couldn’t help but think she reminded him of some forgotten movie star, one he couldn’t remember having ever seen in anything.

“Well something tells me you didn’t come all the way to  _quaint_ , little L’ange to sit in an empty bar and drink a knock off party decoration.”

Jessica paid no mind to Howon’s increasingly irritated voice and continued to sip on her drink. She slid him a beige envelope with a worn label smeared in black ink and gave him an encouraging lift of the brows, motioning for him to open it. Howon gave her an incredulous look but reached for it anyways.

Women. He found himself staring at pictures of women. Varying ages, varying looks. He tilted a few, finding a couple strikingly beautiful though he couldn’t place exactly what about them made them so.

“Jo Boah, Kong Hyojin…” Jessica placed her glass on the counter, eyes shifting. “Ha Jiwon and Kim Sohyun.”

“Should I know 'em?” He asked.

“Unless you have a penchant for knowing dead women, I'd hope not.” She set down her drink. “Their bodies were found weeks after their disappearances in... almost... complete condition." 

Howon frowned. 

"None of them knew each other though," Jessica continued. "Aside from them all being women, there seemed to be nothing connecting them at all really—at least at face value. You mind?”

Howon hadn't realized he'd been staring at the rim of her cup for a good while till she'd tapped something against the glass. In her hands, she held up a tin of cigarettes. He shrugged. 

“So, I’m guessing you're going to tell me something does connect 'em.”

“Sharp man,” Jessica said. She took a light to the stick between her lips and puffed before taking another drink, finishing it in a single gulp. Howon said nothing as she slipped him a few more bills and he slid her another drink. “Now no one really thought anything of these disappearances, at least not beyond the local police. Why would they? If there’s anything this godforsaken country has no shortage of its ignorance, poverty, and missing women and children.”

Another flash of lightning and roll of thunder highlighted the bitter smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She did not hesitate to finish her glass. He poured her another without prompt.

“But, what’s prompted a deeper look into these cases is the recent disappearance of a capitol judge’s daughter. And can you guess what we’ve found?” Jessica paused to take another large gulp of alcohol. “Just a week before their initial disappearance, each one of them took a rather whimsy trip to a traveling circus.”

Howon stiffened. His posture straightened. Jessica downed the rest of her glass and carefully placed it in front of him, her lips pulling into that tight-lipped smile once again.

“Cirque. Des. Etoiles. Dechues.” Jessica spoke each word with a sharp click of the tongue, as if tasting it in her mouth; her expression bitter. “Ever heard the name?”

“Perhaps.” He took her glass and poured her another. “Circuses don’t stop anywhere near L’anges though. Hard to get their caravan through the mountains.”

Before he could finish his words, Jessica slammed her hand against the counter and threw her head back in laughter. It startled him. Timed perfectly with the flash of lightning, her white teeth exposed even whiter, ghostly.

“Don’t play coy with me,  _Hoya_.” She grinned, her words mixing with the rumble of thunder. “Didn’t I say we’re both adults?”

Howon leveled her with his eyes, her expression unreadable but posture much too confident for her slight appearance.

“What are you—,”

“It was extremely hard finding you. But I suppose that was the point.”

Jessica leaned back in her seat and tossed one of her perfectly permed curls over her shoulder. She placed an old newspaper clipping on the counter, the faded ink of the article hard to read. It was questionable if there was even a story there.

“ _’Showmanship unlike any other, a display of pure wonder’_ , ‘ _As beautiful as it is terrifying’_ , ‘ _Cirque des Etoiles, in one word: enthralling_ ’,” she recited the words as if the letters hadn't faded from age, images distorted by shadows of rain drops falling against the window. “High praise. Age has treated you well.”

Howon was petrified. Though the photograph held an indecipherable grain, face blurred from smudged stage makeup and softer younger features feathered by time, obscurring any identifying scars or blemishes, with arm raised in triumph and legs angled and suspended, his own youthful face stared back at him. And it dawned on Howon that she’d known the whole time.

“Don’t look so terrified. I know you haven’t stepped much a foot outside this rundown mountainside town all year. Not to mention you’ve been slaving away at this bar nearly every day since the end of the war. Relax, you aren’t being suspected of murder.”

Howon wasn't assured. She took another sip of her drink, the ashes of her cigarette wasting to the bar top.

“Then why are you here?” He finally asked. “Why come all this way just to talk to a washed-up circus performer if you aren’t tryin’ to make an arrest.”

“The department wants your help," she said, as if it were as simple as that. "We need someone to give us an in to the deeper workings of the circus.”

“You want me to be a spy?”

“Think of it more as being an _informant_.”

“Same difference.”

Howon leaned against the back shelf. He felt like he needed a strong drink.

“There was an investigation of the circus when the allegations were first found, a few interviews, a bit of detective work. Nothing came up, but little can be done when they know it’s an investigation. No one will openly admit their crime to someone they know to be a cop. But you…” Jessica raised a pointed finger to him, wagging it in a way that had Howon wondering if the alcohol had settled in her yet. “You have knowledge and a connection no one in the department does.”

“I  _left_.” He cut her off. The lines between his brows thick and hard shadowed. “I left seven years ago, and lord knows if anyone I knew then is still there. When I left, we were…” Howon paused and eyed the empty glasses in the sink. He felt his blood grow and heart race. He shut his eyes and took a breath, trying to focus on the familiar hum of the lights. “It's been seven years. Who knows if I’d be any help, I’m just as much a stranger to the current Cirque des Etoiles as you are.”

When he looked back to Jessica, she didn’t look pleased. Her mouth was pressed thin and eyes set like daggers to him. She didn’t look so much angry as she did frustrated. If she didn't seem so bent on appearing put together, Howon imaged she'd reach right across the bar and grab him by the shirt and sock him.

“You know,” she began, her voice pitched lower, slower. She took another sip of her drink. “When researching you, it was interesting to see that Lee Howon was essentially nonexistent till about half a decade ago. Now why would that be?"

Howon frowned. 

“At first, I searched for any records for a Lee Ho _ya_  but, Hoya was just a stage name of course there would be no official records. But, Lee Ho _dong_? Now, some interesting records came up regarding that name.” She was nodding her head, as if reliving the moment of realization. “Petty thefts, multiple accounts of fraud and false identity, assault  _and_  battery charges…”

“I was pardoned for good service.”

“I’m sure you were.” Howon doesn’t miss the snide tone in her voice. Her fingers tapped against her glass, contents almost empty. “But perception is everything, isn’t it Hoya? Otherwise why go through so much trouble to make any records of the name change so difficult to find, even for an employee of the state?”

“I—,”

“How did you convince the banks to loan you enough money to buy this place? For a man with a record like yours and no collateral to his name, quite the feat.” She smirked and tried to catch his eyes. In his silence, she knew she had him cornered. “How long do you think they’d let you keep your lease if they knew?”

She slid another envelop across the counter, this one looking crisper, newer. He did his best not to seem affected by her hard stare, but the shake of his hands betrayed him. Inside were two tickets for a show to Cirque des Etoiles Dechues. The date set for a weeks’ time.

“One for you and your boy. I’ll send a cab.” Without so much as another glance, she downed the rest of her drink and pushed it towards him. He watched her gather her things, pulling on her trench coat, gloves, and felt hat, looking as put together and proper as she had when she’d first walked in. Taking one last drag of her cigarette, she put it out next to another five piece she left him.

“Keep the change,” Is all she said before leaving back into the storm.

Howon waited moments after she’d flagged down a cab to pull a bottle from the shelf behind him. Slumping down onto a crate, he downed a swig and coughed when it’d hit the back of his throat, alcohol burning. He had splattered an unattractive amount all over his shirt in his haste and trembling hands, but that moment couldn’t find it in him to care.

He held the envelope in his hands. Taking out the tickets once more, another paper slid out of the envelope and into his lap. Another newspaper clipping; this one more current.

Dated at a year ago, the photograph held a capture of a handful of circus performers posed and displayed in all acts across the stage, reminding Howon of memories of his own final bows. Though his better judgement told him to put it back into the envelope, his eyes continued to scan the picture, searching beneath the glamour and stage lights for familiar faces.

There was a  _clacking_  and clamoring of a broomstick falling up the stairs. Howon picked himself off the floor and placed the bottle back onto the shelf.  

“I thought I told you not to listen, you punk.”

The boy peered out from the frame and took a sheepish step forward. There was an apologetic look as the scarred skin that marred his left eye and nose crinkled on his face. A hand rubbed the back of his neck. Even at his young age and willowy frame, Park Jisung stood almost half a head taller than Howon at his proudest. And now, Howon leaned, exasperated, against the countertop with his head held between his palms.

“So…” Jisung spoke, “I didn’t know you were part of the circus…”

Howon heaved a sigh and slid his hands down the sides of his face. The picture still held in his hands, his lips dipped into a frown.

“It was another lifetime ago.”

“Are you…excited? To be going back—I mean…”

Jisung’s voice faded with a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. He doesn’t get an answer.

Howon raised his gaze from the photograph and onto the view of the street outside. It was empty now, rain still pouring like a bad omen. And as another bout of lightning erupted in the sky, he recalls the rainy night he had left the circus behind, and the face of a boy who hated the sight of stormy clouds.

 

∞

 

Somewhere not too distant, a caravan of horses and wagons moved across the valley. Against the torrents of wind and rain, persons from the front shouted to carts in the back as young boys and women worked to patch leaking roofs and windows. The horses whinnied, and legs shook from the fatigue of days’ travel. A group of men, covered to the elbows in mud, cried out as they attempted to heave a cart out of a sinking ditch.

The rain pelted their backs as debris and mire sloshed up into their faces.

A boy gasped awake to the strike of lightning and rolling thunder. His hair matted by sweat against his face, his hand clutched at his bare chest as he panted and swallowed to regain breath. The wooden carriage quivered and creaked against the wind, dangling and mirrored trinkets swaying with the rhythm of the squall. He caught a glimpse of the mess of himself in the vanity mirror at the foot of his bed, pale skin sickly under the darkness of the storm.

“What’s wrong?”

Another boy, older, lifted himself from beneath the covers beside him. Sleep still present on his expression; his voice held a gravely warmth as he pressed his lips to the small of the younger’s back. He continued to pepper kisses, light and feathery, up the spine and back down, quietly waiting for the other to speak.

“I had another vision.” The younger finally said. His voice dry and cracked, it didn’t reach above a whisper. There was silence as the kisses stopped, but a warm hand was placed reassuringly on his shoulder. Fingers fanning over the uneven, roughness of a scar. “I had a vision. But I can’t remember what it was about. Only that it terrified me.”

He sounded on the verge of tears, voice going high into hysterics though his expression remained even in the view of the vanity mirror. The older gently hushed him and pulled him back into laying on the bed.

Mouth pressed to neck, the younger found comfort in burying his face into the elder’s collar. Inhaling the warmth and scent of sandalwood, a gentle kiss was placed at his crown.

“We’ll reach the next town soon,” the younger boy said, sleep filling his voice.

“We will,” the older responded.

Naked bodies pressed flushed together and quilted wool wrapping and covering them to their noses, they were safe from the chill of the wind as rain continued to pelt the wagon roof. The carriage jolted and jumped as the wheels creaked along the uneven grounds causing the older to shift to hold the younger tighter and entangle their legs further.

“They said we’d reach town by morn’.”

“They did.”

Outside, the storm continued. Wracking against the walls and assaulting the shutters. It was a storm outside, but they were wrapped safely away from it all.

“It won’t rain in this town, will it?”

“It won’t.”

Though the younger held him too, he didn’t reciprocate in the same way as the older boy did.

“I hate the rain.”

Not that the older minded.

“I know.”

And just as sudden as the lightning that flashed, the circus made its parade into town, a rolling thunder followed in its wake.


	2. II

The sparse flat of the valley raised into the bustle, buildings, and lights of a city. Merveille wasn’t the biggest of cities, but it had a history and culture almost untouched by the war. A city that didn’t know the horrors of bomb raids and dead children, rations and starvation, ignorant to the poverty stricken L’ange just across the valley. A thriving economy and population, Howon felt small and out of element as he watched the lives of unknowing city dwellers pass outside the cab window.

“You can’t see the stars from here, Mr. Howon sir.”

Beside him, Jisung was half standing, one foot tucked beneath him on the leather seats, and head stuck out the window look up to the sky. 

“I told you,” Howon hissed, “stop doin’ that. Sit right.”

As Jisung slowly slumped back into his seat, Howon adjusted his jacket and pants and clasped his hands together in hopes of keeping his nervousness masked.

The entire exchange that stormy night had felt like one large fever dream. Something from a night terror. Yet every time he’d open the top drawer of his dresser, there’d be the tickets and newspaper clippings, staring back at him like a bad memory. And then came the phone call to the bar that morning. Jessica’s voice pristine and clear at the other end, informing Howon of the time the car would be coming around. When he’d left the keys to The Purple Pig with a man Jessica had arranged for, an older man¾flamboyant¾in a velvet blazer and tie, he’d done so with heavy dread.

The car pulled up to an arching entrance. _Cirque des Etoiles Dechues_ lit like a beacon in all the colors of neon yellows and blues.

“How was the ride? The mountain roads treat you well?”

“Better than walkin’ I suppose.”

Jessica stood just as well dressed as she’d been the night she entered The Purple Pig, looking much more in her element. As the crowds of equally well dressed hoards surrounded them, Howon couldn’t help but be conscious of the uneven stitches in his coat.

A cigarette between her fingers, she waved off the driver without so much as paying a single piece. As the car pulled away and turned around the corner, Jessica turned to smirk at him. And Howon was filled once more with that sinking feeling like a fish trapped in a net.

“You think it’s going to rain, again?” She turned a pointed look to Jisung, a large scarf wrapped around the base of his neck and over his face, hooding his eyes in shadow.

“No ma’am.”

“People don’t like lookin’ at his scar,” Howon said. “Easier for us to walk in crowded places if others aren’t tryin’ to treat him like a side road freak show.”

Jessica looked unaffected by the coarse response and only gave a thoughtful hum. Reaching to ruffle the boy’s head, she affectionately gave his cheek a pinch and proceeded to the entrance. Howon and Jisung followed.

Jisung was a child, marveling at all the lights and splendor, finding amusement in the arrays of colorfully painted posters hanging from flagpoles around the circus grounds. He was eying a confetti laden cart, the smell of burnt sugar and starch wafting from it, before Howon pulled him by the arm to keep up.

The main circus tent stood at the middle of the field. Held together by spokes and ropes, the exterior, with its frayed tarp and dirtied patch work, looked about ready to fly at the slightest passing of wind.

Dark cobalt, almost midnight, drapes lined every corner of the interior, blooming from the ceiling and falling in a pool on the floor. As people began taking their seats, Howon took note of the single ring that filled the center.

“Don’t look so stiff.” Jessica whispered into his ear. She had shed her coat, setting atop her lap, and was looking at him. She offered him a cigarette. “Relax, you’re at the circus. Not on trial.”

He was hesitant but took a fag from the tin box.

“Can I have one?”

Howon smacked Jisung’s hand away.

“Don’t be puttin’ shit in your body.”

“And you can?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I shit roses.”

“Bull. Your shit smells worse than mine.”

Howon pinched at the back of Jisung’s neck and gave a stern look of disapproval. Jisung furrowed his brow and returned a pinch of his own just under Howon’s arm. Howon scoffed and pulled a smirk just as he was about to pull the boy into a headlock. But without warning, their rib was interrupted by firm hands on his jaw. Jessica wrenched him to look at her, mouth a mirthful smile, as she lit the fag between his lips. Leaning back into her seat, she took one long drag of her own.

“Do as we say, not as we do, kid,” she said.

Jisung had an indignant look on his face. Mouth open and eyes wide, he took a breath to say something when the lights dimmed, the audience’s surprised gasps drowning out anything else that would have been said.

A single spotlight fell into the ring.

Howon felt his posture stiffen again, suddenly all too aware of where he was. A man at the center of the stage, dressed in blue satins and velvets, stood with top hat tipped and white gloved hands placed cordially atop a golden cane. The audience went silent.

“Ladies and children, and the monsters beside whom you call loving husband and father. Welcome!”

With nervous laughter, the audience applauded. From beneath the rim of his top hat, he seemed to be surveying the crowd, turning his head ever so slightly. He began pacing around the ring at a slow gate, his golden cane _clicking_ at each step along the circus floor.

“The stars!” His voice echoed. “Our ancestors had many theories as to what they were. Caged doves. Caught fireflies. Spirits of the dead. Great balls of concentrated gas.”

As he spoke, he produced shadows of birds in flight and light dancing across the sky. Creating illusions with just a wave of his gloved hands.

“Since the dawn of time humanity has tried to explain away the marvel of these beacons in our sky, the light in our infinite darkness and yet!” The ring master turned, his velveted coat trailing behind his motions. With his cane he pointed that golden scepter to a member in the audience. “And yet, for all our science and explanations, we cannot set these marvels free. We trap them, selfishly. Just as we do ourselves.” He returned the cane to his side. “But those who have broken away, those fallen stars who escape from the night. Those stars who trail their luster behind them in their wake! Ladies and gentlemen¾!”

The ringmaster had made his way into the center of the ring. His stance tall and proud, the single spotlight shining on him, like that beacon in the darkness. The air was silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must inform you on a little secret.” His voice grew low, gravely in its command. He smirked. Slowly, a gloved hand lifted to his top hat and removed it, revealing narrowed, vulpine eyes, that Howon felt had been staring at him the entire time. “It is the fallen stars who have the desperation to shine the brightest.”

And with a strike of his cane, he erupted into flames and disappeared into the smoke and embers. Drapes unraveled, their patterns catching the spotlights like glimmers of stars. Aerial silk artist revealed themselves from the ashes as the blaring of horns and strings played in the background. The audience erupted into applause.

The show had begun.

Aerialist glided through the air and defied gravity with arms wide. Daring trapeze artist dove from their platforms to capture bars that swung on precariously tied ropes, flinging themselves across the ring with ease of birds in flight. The audience ‘ooh’-ed and ‘ahh’-ed at the appropriate times, their ovations and gasps of breaths becoming accompaniment to the music. There was even laughter as a duo of clowns came out to do physical gags between routines.

Howon hadn’t realized his own lack of reaction till Jisung bombarded him with his own enthusiasm. He would shake at Howon’s shoulder at every trick, every flip, his eyes gleaming and mouth agape in awe.

“Bringing back memories?” Jessica had leaned over to whisper.

“Perhaps.” He said. The audience squirmed as snakes filled the ring. The snake charmer, a man with dark hair and dark eyes, played his flute while dancing about the creatures. “But we didn’t have anything like that.”

Jessica offered him another light and he took it without question. The smoke clearing his lugs and loosening his shoulders with every drag, he continued to watch each performance with a tense kind of analytical gaze.

Pretty words and a pretty performance, but beneath the gaudy make up, carnival music, and death-defying feats, all to create an illusion of mystifying nature, Howon knew the sweat, knew the tricks, knew the secrets they all tried to hide. Like the misdirection in the ringmaster’s illusions, he knew wait laid just beneath the surface.

Howon knew it better than anyone.

_It’s the fallen stars that have the desperation to shine the brightest._

When the lights dimmed, Howon took one long drag of his cigarette and exhaled as a single spotlight was cast into the ring, like a full moon into the night.

There was a boy.

Waifish and young. Flecks of stars and glitter were painted across his pale skin, dancing like fingerprints of galaxies dancing up lithe curves and slim arms, scattering along slender fingers. The light flitted across his skin in such a way, as if daring the mind of the viewer to imagine their own hands dancing along those patterns.

He was ornamented. The single spotlight that shone on him reflected the shine of gild and jewels against his blond hair, his neck and wrists adorned in gold and pearls that he wore his like a noose, suspended meters above the solid ground. A strip of silk was tied over his eyes as he sat, perched atop a dangling hoop, with arms bound to a ribbon above his head like the image of a small star about to plunge into the darkness, enrapturing in his vulnerability¾captivating in his breakability.

Howon swallowed at the image.

As the first notes of a piano began to play, the boy bent, in the most inhuman of ways. The audience’s terror audible through the palpable silence beneath the eerie tune that began to form. No one dared to move, no one dared to breathe; less the nightmarish sight of the boy’s thin arms pulling his body up to place feet between arms was disturbed. Even Jisung was stunned into silence. But just as his appearance, there was a beauty to how he moved, midair and contorting into shapes almost demonic in nature. A dance, a grace. A whisper of the night. A gruesome sight yet, hauntingly beautiful.

And as the music began to swell, the lines of his body distorted and curved wish a kind of desperation, like he were barely holding to that hoop.

That hoop.

Howon knew the trick—understood it well. He knew that just bellow the lights, where it was covered in shadows, there were safety nets. He knew that if he were to fall, the boy would be safe, that it was all an illusion of danger, an illusion of flight. He knew.

Howon gripped his thigh in a vice. Riled and at the edge of his seat, every crash of a beat and crescendo of the strings the boy would slip further, grasp on tighter. He swung and— _crash_. And he would bend and— _crash_. And he would attempt to climb higher and— _crash_.

_Crash_.

_Crash_.

_Crash_.

His frantic attempts to regain control and—

_Crash_.

His hold on the ribbon precarious and—

_Crash_.

His desperation was like an illusive dance, a sadistic dream, a reverie and vision hanging so close yet just out of reach and—

_Silence_.

He was once again perched atop that hoop, in the exact pose he had begun. Arms bound just overhead like a star ready to fall. The ornaments glimmering from his body shuttered with each breath as the galaxies that painted his skin danced with a new light. The silken cloth fell from his eyes.

For the first time, the boy turned his gaze out to the audience. Eyes wide, lips parted, panting. Howon’s breath was caught.

He let go.

And the audience gasped as he plunged into the darkness.

The star had fallen.

Even when the lights had come back on, the silence lingered for a moment as the applause came in delay. As aerialist took to the skies and the acrobats and clowns and illusionist filled the ring, it was only when the boy¾that golden haired boy¾walked into the front of the stage, head held high and posture poised, did the cheers of audience bellow into roars.

 

 

“That. was. _Amazing_!” The summer night’s air fell cool against the field. The three had found an unoccupied table to occupy themselves. Jisung bounded and flung himself around a flag pole, arms and palms open. “Did you really used to do those things, Mr. Howon sir? Swinging from ropes and stuffs I mean.”

“You think I couldn’t? Get down from there.”

Jisung ignored Howon’s upbraiding tone and continued to swing about the flagpole.

“You just always seemed like the type with two left feet, sir.”

“Stop spinnin’ round that thing or someone’s definitely bout to have two left feet.”

“See Ms. Jessica ma’am, he’s always sayin’ bull like this!”

Howon leapt from his seat to give chase after Jisung who’d bolted behind her. Jessica chuckled.

“Here, kid.”

When Howon had given up, complaining of old age, and came back to sit at the table, she handed Jisung a quarter piece and told him to buy any treat he wanted with it.  Jisung had looked at it bashfully and refused, but with insistence he was off and bounding for that cart of sweets he’d seen when they first entered.

“I guess it wasn’t such a bad idea bringing him here,” Howon said. Watching after him, Howon couldn’t help but sigh as a smile began tugging at the corners of his lips. “I haven’t seen the kid this excited in a while—,”

“Stop.” Jessica said. “Don’t forget I brought you here for a job.”

Where she had just been leaning against the table with cheek in palm, now she sat, back straight with arms crossed to chest. Expression dark.

“Yeah. Like I could forget.” He adjusted his coat, suddenly feeling it too tight at his shoulders.

“You need to go backstage.” She said. “The public isn’t allowed to be back there, but you need to make a contact tonight. Give them some bullshit about feeling nostalgic or something—best lies stick close to the truth.” Standing, she patted down her pleated skirt and pulled out her tin box. She took a light. “Be charming. Give them a reason to invite you back.”

Howon didn’t see Jessica leave him at the table so much as he felt her sleeves brush past him.

There were signs, fastened to spokes in the ground, with large, bold lettering. Warnings that areas past those points were for performer and circus employees only. Howon did his best to look inconspicuous as he slipped past them without so much as a blink.

Howon found no trouble walking the performers’ grounds. Rowdy laughter and boisterous chatter replaced the muffled murmur of the circus music. Despite the festivities, Howon was surprised to see the cleanliness of which most of the field seemed to be free of broken bottles and unconscious bodies. Howon could see the crowd of post-show celebrations.

There were voices. Foreign sounding, heavily accented. He ducked between two adjacent tents, thinking best to avoid being ushered out prematurely.

“The fuck’d you leave ‘em here?” One said.

“Jeez, yah whine more than a bitch,” said the other. “Yah don like where I put ‘em yah do it your self then.”

He peered through a crack in the curtains. Howon recognized the two men from the performance. Strap aerialist. Twins. Makeup removed but still dawning their costumes, their figures were hunched over something obscured by the shadows. From behind a group of sandbags one, with blue striped hair, pulled out a chest. Large and dark, bolted at the seams.

 “I’m just sayin’ someone could find it easy here, yah dimwit ass,” the other, darker haired, spoke.

“If yah don like where I put it, then get your hands dirty and do it yah self.”

The darker haired one seemed unimpressed by the harsh words and only shook his head. He paused, eyes shifted and caught sight of Howon.

“Ey, what are yah lookin’ at?”

Howon immediately released the curtain only to have it pulled back again, dark eyes and hair meeting him. Face just as foreign as his harsh accent.

“Who are you?”

Howon racked his mind for words to say, but nothing came of it except a gaping mouth.

“What are yah doin’?”

The other twin had appeared. Without makeup, Howon could see the makings of one long, jagged scar dragging from the corner of a lip to the back of his jaw.

“I was just. Lookin’ around. Feelin’ nostalgic, you know.” Howon regurgitated the words, trying keep his voice from sounding as dry as his throat felt.

They didn’t look convinced.

“Don think yah can pull that shit on us, yah peepin’ tom.”

Howon knew himself to be not the tallest of men, but he always prided himself in his athleticism and strength. Yet something about the combination of the two leering over him, shoulders broad and fists balled, had him fighting the urge to run on his heels.

“What’s going on?”

The two stopped their advances. At the entrance of the tent stood the ringmaster, top hat gone, and satin coat unbuttoned at the top. He still held onto the golden cane, though more gripped like a sword than a cane.

“Sunggyu.”

The words slip from Howon’s lips before he has time to process the implications.

“You know ‘em?”

He looked at him, the man named Sunggyu. If there was any recognition, he didn’t show it. He turned back to the twins.

“What were you two doing? Daeryong?” He looked to the one with a blue stripe. Then to the other. “Soryong?”  

They looked at each other, unspoken words passing between them.

“Nuthin’. Just…forgot sumin’.”

They left without further confrontation, brushing past Howon as they went. He noted how they’d left the chest.

A tension that had built in his muscles relaxed, only slightly, at the sight of them leaving. A breath he’d been holding was released. And it was in that moment he thought that he too should leave before he ran into anymore unwanted trouble. He hasn’t done what Jessica had sent him in for, but at that point, he was certain it was a mistake.

He turned on his heel to leave.

“Hoya.” The voice of Sunggyu stopped him. Demanding, commanding. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

He thought he should leave. Ignore it and leave. But he found himself turning back, and he was looking into the eyes of Kim Sunggyu. Older, aged (just the same as him). Sharp and calculating, measuring. A silence stretching between them as Howon gave one slow, but affirmative, nod.

His expression softened. A smile pulled at the corners of his lips and a familiar bucktoothed grin was stretching for him. Sunggyu embraced him.

“It’s been years. How many now?”

“Seven.”

“Seven. Amazing.”

And he said it as if it indeed were. Howon found himself smiling when they parted.

“So,” Howon began. He found it almost comical, the contrast of his modest suit to Sunggyu’s blue velvet coat, with all its intricate gold thread embroiders and lapel. “You’re ringmaster now. That’s something I never thought I’d see.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been in good practice the last several years.” Sunggyu chuckled, bashful. “But you. How have you been?”

There was a familiarity with Sunggyu, a charm Sunggyu always had, a way to put others at ease. It was how he was able to so effectively execute his illusions, Howon knew. But before he could comprehend, he was sharing with Sunggyu details of his life after the war, of The Purple Pig and his humble life, and sharing quips and sarcastic responses, as if they were old friends.

Perhaps they were.

Sunggyu guided him. Lit by torches and oil lamps. Through the performers, he saw celebrations (broken beer bottles and overflowing kegs of rum) and wear (wrapped legs and bandaged arms, generous spreads of salve on reddened skin). They gave him guarded looks and wary glances. One, a small framed woman he recognized as half a clown duo, stared him up and down, sizing him up with a cigar stuck between her teeth.

“There’s hardly any more animal acts,” Howon mentioned.

“Yes, well. We went through some tough times in the beginning. And the animals could sell for a pretty piece.”

“Oh.”

Sunggyu had pulled him to a trailer that he could only assume to be Sunggyu’s personal quarters. It wasn’t big, but it was better than needing to share something half the size.

“So, you came all the way through the mountains. Should I feel flattered?”

Sunggyu was seated at a grand desk, with papers he’d hastily collected into a drawer out of sight. Howon was seated across from him, in a chair with a plush cushion and an embroidered arm. 

“Don’t be getting’ on your high horses.” Howon jibed. “But Jisung was thoroughly impressed so perhaps you’ve created somethin’ special here.”

“Jisung?”

Howon paused. His back straightened.

“Ah, yeah. A boy I rescued from Ville Est during my service.”

“A boy.” Sunggyu nodded. “About how old?”

Sunggyu was looking at him. Howon shifted.

“He just turned sixteen this year, about.”

“I see.” Sunggyu’s expression was unreadable. He rested his chin in a hand, fingers sprawling over his mouth. “So, you came because of your…boy. I’d like to meet him sometime maybe.”

“Ah, maybe. He’s shy ‘round strangers.”  

“Certainly not a performer. Unlike our Little Star.” Something in the way Sunggyu spoke had changed, lowered. Though they were the only two, he had reduced his tone to a hushed whisper. “I’m sure you noticed.”

Howon could see a smile spread across Sunggyu’s face, in almost the exact same way he’d seen happen just moments early. But this one did little to put him at ease. He rocked to the edge of his seat, suddenly feeling jittery in his legs.

He hadn’t noticed when he’d first entered, but in their silence, Howon noticed the heavy ticking of a clock. Or clocks. Three hefty sized ones hanging at the opposite end of the wall, all reading differing times.

“I think I should be leaving.” Howon hoped there was no evident haste in his voice.

“Of course. The trip through the mountains is long.” Sunggyu raised himself from his seat just as Howon collected himself. “Should I send you back?”

“No. Ah, no. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s been…” Howon paused. “It’s been nice. Truly.”

It had always been difficult to know what Sunggyu was thinking.

“Have a safe trip.”

In those moments, leaving Sunggyu’s trailer reminded him of the time he’d fallen into the sleeping lion’s pen. The momentary peril and ultimate relief. He hadn’t even realized, till he’d gotten to the trailer ground’s edge, that he had not gotten an invitation to return.

He debated going back, deciding if there was anything that could be salvaged from his abrupt leave. He raked a hand through his hair, and took refuge under a light, only to notice it coming from the window of a remote trailer.

A thin veil hung from its frame but did little to shield the image of a boy. Thin framed and supple skin, Howon could see as he moved about the trailer, removing sequences of glitter with a wet cloth that dripped down the line of his shoulder and gentle bend of his back. He followed the droplets with his eyes, down, down. Across the curve of his hip and down.

He swallowed, and felt as his throat went dry.

“Lost?”

Howon startled.

In black cloaks and charcoaled eyes, a young man emerged from the shadows with a look of distaste and distrust, something Howon was becoming accustomed to among the circus performers.

“Not exactly.”

The man¾or rather boy¾ looked as if he’d been standing in the shadows of the trailer for a while. He was just tall enough to block view of the tailor window

It took Howon a few moments before he recognized him to be the snake charmer, features appearing much younger up close than what he recalled from the distance of the stage. But even those youthful features, he saw as the look in the snake charmer’s eyes grew dark, almost feral.

“These are performer lodgings. Audiences aren’t allowed.”

His voice was deeper than what he would have imagined for someone with such boyish features. Never the less, the warning was heard. He turned to leave. The boy continued to stare at him, he felt, even till he’d long disappeared from the circus quarters.

Jessica and Jisung had been waiting just outside the circus gates. Jisung squatting by the curbside and Jessica with a half-burnt stick between her fingers.

“So?”

“So.”

“Were you able to get a point of contact?”

“I don’t know.” Howon said truthfully.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

He half expected her to be impatient with him. To pester him for answers. But she remained poised, that cigarette falling from her lips. She called them a cab.

“Did they suspect you?” She asked.

He tensed at the initial question, but relaxed back into his seat when he realized she was still talking about the infiltration.

“No,” he said. “No, of course not.”

She nodded and took another drag of her cigarette. She closed the door and gave a nod for teh driver to send them off,  Howon all of a sudden feeling too tired.

 

∞

 

Lit lamps on night shrouded faces. A tapping of the dull blade of a knife against a potato barrel. An owl hung close to a tree branch, scanning the night for prey before taking flight into the light of the moon. The circus and city sleep in the wake of the dim lit stars.

“Don’t be makin’ that face Soul, doll. It ain’t becomin’ of a lady.”

“Save it yah cheat.”

“Huhu, pissy.”

“Will yah two shut up.”

“Daeryong, were you able to do it?”

“Yeh. Not much trouble, ‘cept from your little friend.”

“I see.”

“Saw ‘em with someone from the police. Could be trouble.”

“Should we do somethin’ ‘bout him?”

“We’ll keep him close.”

“What?”

“If he really is working with the police, best to keep him in our sights.”

“And how we gonna do that.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be hard, he’ll do it willingly, on his own.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Trust me.”

The owl returns with an empty talon and a scratched beak.

“Why the dark look, snake boy? Golden boy leave your python dry tonight?”

"Hey, watch your mouth. Myungsoo, if you have something to say, say it."

The night is silent. 

"Nothing."

And the hawk eats plenty tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to leave kudos and comments with your thoughts! They are all greatly appreciated ^^)/

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to comment ^^)/


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